


The Blair Witch Project Part Too: Dave, John, and Amy Exorcize the Shit out of a Forest

by everybodylies



Category: John Dies at the End - David Wong, The Blair Witch Project (1999)
Genre: Crossover, Documentary, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a box full of VHS tapes on the floor of the shed. If you dig underneath some possessed VeggieTales adventures (don't ask) and John's vintage porn collection, you'll find an old, dusty tape, with a masking tape label reading "The Bare Wench Project—</p><p>Oh, sorry, that's still John's porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blair Witch Project Part Too: Dave, John, and Amy Exorcize the Shit out of a Forest

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Blair Witch Project for the first time a couple of weeks ago, and this happened. Fun fact: Adding John, Dave, and Amy to any horror movie automatically makes it 10x better.
> 
> A word of warning: I'm not very good at finishing stories, and this story is not finished at all. It may never be finished. I just figured I'd post it because there are so few stories in this fandom as it is. We need more! ~~Also Korrok is controlling my movements please help me~~
> 
> Set somewhere between JDATE and TBIFOS.

A full account of the stories behind all the shit in my shed would fill a dozen books, or rather, the margins of a hundred bibles, which would be a safer way to record our exploits, but right now I'm telling the story behind one specific item.

It's a VHS tape. There's a box full of VHS tapes on the floor of the shed. If you dig underneath some possessed VeggieTales adventures (don't ask) and John's vintage porn collection, you'll find an old, dusty tape, with a masking tape label reading "The Bare Wench Project—

Oh, sorry, that's still John's porn.

Here it is. It's a tape labeled with the title that was most certainly not my idea: "The Blair Witch Project Part Too: Dave, John, and Amy Exorcize the Shit out of a Forest."

This recording is actually one of my prized possessions. It keeps me sane. Well… relatively sane, at least. In the past, when we've tried to videotape or photograph the crap we see, the film comes out ruined or the camera explodes into a gaseous ball of flame, etc. But Burkittsville was different.

Sometimes I get caught up in my own head too much. I get paranoid, start thinking that none of the crazy shit that happened to us actually happened. The door at the mall doesn't exist anymore. The ground where Robert Marley parked his trailer has been leased out to another typical white trash family. What proof do I have of the supernatural?

I have this video. I mean, it's not concrete evidence. Nothing that would hold up in court, especially not these days, when photoshop exists. But it's good enough for me.

Pop it in the VHS player, and you'll see:

* * *

Blurred trees whizzing by in a car window.

Amy's voice is loud from behind the camera as she speaks in an overdramatic tone, "Burkittsville, Maryland. Founded in the 1800's, Burkittsville is the typical American small town… on the surface. But underneath all those quaint corn fields and family-owned businesses, there is a dark, hidden history that—"

My voice. "Amy, what are you doing?"

The camera swings around to me, holding the steering wheel and looking ahead. I am, as always, pale as an old man's buttcheek and also as pudgy. When I notice the camera, I hold up a hand to block my face.

"I'm documenting," Amy says. "Like those kids did. I figure it might help us get into their heads, think the way they did."

"That's not why you're doing it," I say. "You're having fun with it."

"Yeah, that too, I guess. It's like, you know how normal people have home videos of their vacations and kids and stuff? Well, this can be ours."

John's voice comes from the backseat. "You're recording? Hm, maybe karate-master John should bust out some of his best moves during this adventure. For posterity's sake."

The camera swings to John, laying down, sprawled across the backseat, and chewing on some beef jerky. He keeps pushing away Molly, who is sitting on his chest and whining.

"No," I say. "Amy if he does _any_ karate at all, do _not_ film it. Enough people think he has a black belt as it is."

"That's because I do have one, Dave."

"Funnily enough, stealing someone else's black belt from their house during a house party does not count as 'having one.'"

John smiles and points to me, shaking his head, and Amy laughs.

* * *

The gas station. John is leaning against the trunk of the Bronco, and I'm holding the pump and staring at the gas prices with a frown. There's the whooshing of cars speeding down the highway in the background.

Amy's voice. "So, guys, can we get a recap? Tell the audience what's going on."

I press a couple buttons and start filling up the car. John takes out a cigarette, lights it, then stares into the distance. Overdramatic, just like Amy. God, I hate those two.

"Last week we got a call from a woman named May Donahue. She said that her daughter had gone missing after she went on an overnight hiking trip to make a documentary about a legend called 'The Blair Witch.' They still haven't found any bodies, but they did find her daughter's footage, and Ms. Donahue said that it depicted disturbing images. Very disturbing. The kind of stuff that we deal with. So we said we'd come check it out. Mrs. Donahue lives in Virginia, but she was offering a lot of money, and Dave's still in debt from that time we had to go to the hospital to get all that stuff removed from his butt. Do you remember that, Dave? Remember all that junk in your butt?"

I roll my eyes and don't respond to John, instead deciding to continue the story.

"So, yeah, we piled into my car and drove down to Virginia. We met with Mrs. Donahue, and she told us about how they found the footage buried in the forest. Before she showed us the video, she said, 'Now, I'm going to warn you: what you see on this tape is going to be completely unlike anything you've seen before,' to which John replied, 'Ma'am, I've seen a thousand wig-monsters lick a giant ice sculpture on command. My command. You won't surprise us.' She then thought we were super weird from thereafter, so thanks, John."

John shrugs, smirking.

"But…" I say, also not looking directly at the camera, "I think she might have been right. We've seen a lot of things, you know. But this was different. That video scared the shit out of me and into my pants."

The image quality is pretty grainy, but you can see it in my eyes. I'm not fucking around like John is; I'm actually afraid. John and Amy don't seem to notice my unease. By now, those assholes are used to my worrying and have learned to ignore it.

Molly wanders back into view, and John pats her idly as he talks.

"Yeah, we watched the video, and we could tell there was definitely something shady happening in Burkittsville. Something we need to stop. Mrs. Donahue said that word was already getting around about the disappearances. More curious kids have been showing up in that town, trying to see for themselves. Not only that, some movie company is doing their damnedest to get their hands on the videotape and release it as a movie or something. Fuckin' messed up."

Amy sighs as I shake my head.

"And if they release that video," John continues, "who knows how many more kids are going to disappear into that pisshole of a forest. That's why we're headed to Burkittsville. To put a stop to this shit before it begins. Big damn heroes style."

"That's the idea," Amy says brightly in agreement.

* * *

The town sheriff is a round, balding guy who looks like he hasn't left his office for weeks. On the wall behind his desk hangs a missing poster of the three kids, a constant reminder.

He glares straight at the camera that sits on the arm of Amy's chair. "Is that really necessary?"

"It's what the kids did," Amy explains. "We're just trying to follow their footsteps."

"And you know where those footsteps lead, right?" He rubs his face. "Look, what makes you different from all the other kids coming here, just dicking around?"

"Oh, see, that's the difference: we don't just dick around," John says. "We also do a lot of fucking about and making asses of ourselves."

"Also, we have a dog," I add. The camera pans to Molly, head-deep in a trash can, then back.

The sheriff stares at me and John for a moment, then turns to Amy and addresses her only.

"Mrs. Donahue called and told me about you guys. Apparently, you know what you're doing. I highly doubt it, but I've gotten to know her these past few months, and I trust her."

He turns around, pulls down the missing poster, then leans forward, holding it up to us. "You were warned, okay? You saw the video, you see this poster. If you walk into that forest, you might not walk out. You can go if you want, but I warned you and none of what happens after is my fault. I can't have three more missing kids on my conscience, you understand?"

The sheriff's hand is shaking, and he looks like he's about to cry. There is silence, then the sound of Molly licking the inside of a yogurt container.

Amy speaks up gently. "Well, if it helps, my brother and both of my parents are dead, so you won't have to deal with any sad relatives."

Coming from Amy, that fact probably only makes him feel worse.

"Yeah, no one will come looking for us if we disappear," John adds. "You don't have to worry about it! You probably won't even have to report us missing. Just pretend you never met us."

"We want to help," I say. "We know you put up a fence, but it's only like, what, a couple hundred feet long? That's not gonna stop anybody. We want to fix this before it gets worse. Before you have dozens of kids on your conscience instead of just three."

The sheriff stares at us and breathes out slowly. Finally, he bends down to a drawer and pulls out a map. Using a pen, he makes several marks on the paper.

"Here's where we found their car. They went here, to Coffin Rock, first. This is the approximate route that they took after that. And here's where they ended up at the end of the video: Rustin Parr's house. Good luck finding it, though."

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Because it burned down fifty years ago."

The sheriff's tired eyes scream, "I did not sign up for all this occult shit."

_You and me both, man._

Amy pockets the map. "Thank you, sir."

The sheriff shakes his head darkly. "No. Don't thank me." He stands up to open the door for us. "Oh, and if you're thinking of interviewing anybody around here, I'd advise against it. After what happened, people got… weird. They don't like talking about what happened."

* * *

Screaming. High-pitched, fearful.

"Stay the fuck away from me!"

"Ma'am, we're very sorry," Amy tries soothingly. "Just let—"

The woman drops one of her shopping bags in her rush to flip us off. A couple oranges and a box of condoms roll out onto the ground. I take a few steps toward Amy, and the camera shakes in my hand.

She turns to Amy and yells, "You are a big, steaming pile of horseshit!"

Yeah, you heard that right. To _Amy_. I mean, getting flipped off and cursed at are basically daily events for me and John, but, for God's sake, in the corner of this shot, you can see Amy's pigtails and purple Ugg boots. How can you scream at someone who's dressed like that?

Actually, since this event, we've started using the way people treat Amy as a sort of a litmus test. When people dislike her, we can tell shit is going down.

Here's another way to tell.

Pause the video. Right here, when that orange rolls off the curb, when Amy's arm falls to her side.

Look past the woman's bloodshot eyes, past her gaping, screaming mouth, to her shadow, which lies, stretched out, on the concrete behind her.

It's subtle. Your subconscious notices it first, makes you feel uneasy, makes you think there's something wrong with this picture, though you just can't put your finger on what it is. Then you see it. It took me a while. Three viewings actually. Lucky you, you have me to show you.

The shadow seems like it belongs to the woman, at first. But the woman has straight hair down to her shoulders, while the shadow's ratty hair hangs around her waist. The woman's skirt ends at knee level, while the shadow's skirt extends to the ground.

That should have been our first clue as to how strong the darkness was. Over three miles from the forest, the townspeople could still feel the effects.

We didn't notice, of course. Let's unpause the video, see what other bullshit we get into.

Another orange rolls off the curb, and the woman storms off.

"Well, that was weird," I say.

"I guess the sheriff was right," Amy says. Her voice is shaken. "All I did was mention the Blair Witch and she went berserk."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I—"

"Oh, sweet!" John's voice comes from off screen, and the camera swings to catch him bending down to grab what the woman had left behind. "Free oranges! And free condoms!" John's smile quickly disappears. "Damn."

"Let me guess," I say, "too small?"

"In one." John turns around the box to show the camera. "Only extra large. And they're too big for you, Dave!" He shakes his head as he tosses the box in a nearby trashcan. "What a waste."

"Tragic," I agree.


End file.
